One side of his syrinx trilled a curse to his family’s murderer. The other warbled his children’s favorite melodies through sobs. His friends comforted him but discouraged his screams: “You’ll die, by predator or exhaustion.” He always replied: “Can’t die. Already dead.”

The humans nearby praised, “Pretty bird. Beautiful song!”

Nature both terrifies and captivates boomer trujillo. Find more of his work at boomert.info.

It’s the woods and the painted barnstar that hangs upon my neighbor’s house; the nightly vigils that loiter in the windows and the blue Dodge Dart eaten by rust that Mr. Thomas refuses to get rid of.

Placing newly built concrete gods in the rearview, I wonder… where’s home now?

E.O.’s pretty sure that Starbucks is evil. Stores keep spontaneously appearing where trees, herbs, and game used to be, even though their coffee isn’t very good. What type of obscure witchery is this…?

I don’t know why the starry sky
I cannot see how the river carves its way all the way to the ocean
I can only dream where songbirds go to die
I don’t know why
or how, left to its own
a salmon spawning upstream
swims hundreds of miles—home.

Todd is an amateur writer and poet. He met the love of his life in a college writing class. Since then, the two have spent their lives together.